


You were my best chance; I was your last resort

by defractum (nyargles)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Christmas, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Family Drama, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-26
Updated: 2015-02-10
Packaged: 2018-03-03 16:42:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2857715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nyargles/pseuds/defractum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras wouldn't willingly subject any of his friends (except maybe Combeferre) to the horror of his family at Christmas, but Grantaire offers and the thought of company <i>is</i> pretty nice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [polyamory](https://archiveofourown.org/users/polyamory/gifts).



> For the prompt: i really like the fake/ pretend relationship trope where they have to pretend to be a couple for some kind of reason be it nosy family members or an undercover police investigation

“Combeferre,” says Enjolras, making the best puppy dog eyes he knows. Mostly he opens his eyes as wide as he can and keeps them open until they're dry and hurt a bit.

“No,” says Combeferre.

“Please?” says Enjolras, tugging at his sleeve.

Combeferre gives him a Look; Enjolras lets go, and sighs. “Enjolras, I'm sorry, but I can't. You're welcome to come with me, you know.”

Enjolras groans. “And I can't do that either.” He shudders, because as much as he'd really like to skip Christmas festivities with his family, the fall-out that would follow wouldn't be worth the one peaceful day.

“You'll survive it,” says Combeferre quietly. He knows how rough it is for Enjolras even though Enjolras doesn't want to talk about it afterwards.

“They told me to bring someone, like they just assumed I would have someone ready, waiting. I don't know whether I can ask anyone else to subject themselves to that for me,” says Enjolras, and Combeferre snorts.

“Thanks.”

“You know what I mean,” says Enjolras, looking at his mug woefully, since there is no coffee in it anymore. He holds up a hand and starts counting people off. “Courf's taking Jehan to the parents, Bahorel and Feuilly are at the orphanage, Joly and Bossuet are with their girlfriend and – I don't know what Grantaire is doing, but I'm sure he's got something better to do than nursemaid me for three days in the middle of the country.”

He expects that to be the end of that, but Grantaire turns up in his battered van in the morning when Enjolras is just packing the last of the store-wrapped presents.

“Grantaire! What're you doing here?” asks Enjolras, waving him in. He can't really afford to spend time standing and chatting, so he hopes Grantaire won't mind him talking and packing at the same time.

Grantaire raises his eyebrows and watches him from the living room doorway. “Courf said you needed a hand?”

Enjolras freezes. “What?”

“Courf said something about your awful family and Christmas.”

Enjolras simultaneously wilts with relief and cringes. “Oh God, Grantaire, no. I couldn't ask that of you.”

“You didn't,” Grantaire points out, leaning against the doorway, looking immaculately wind-ruffled and amused.

“Right,” says Enjolras. “I – seriously?”

“You want me to spend Christmas with your family and make them not murder you, and you not murder them, right? Yeah, I can do that. I've got nothing better to do anyway.”

Enjolras falters, because he hadn't checked if Grantaire would be spending Christmas alone, and now he knows he would have been, Enjolras feels awful. “Thank you,” he says instead, pushing the edge of his suitcase down carefully so he doesn't crush any of the presents; Grantaire strides over and holds it in place so Enjolras can zip it up. “Thank you,” he says again.

“No problem,” says Grantaire.

\- -

It's a fucking problem.


	2. Chapter 2

"Mother," says Enjolras.

The hopeful look in her eyes falls when she catches a glimpse of Grantaire, standing innocuously behind Enjolras, and the door stops opening, both her face and the door seemingly frozen in the same instant.

"This is Grantaire," says Enjolras heedlessly when her eyes fall back to its usual deadness. "My friend."

"Your... _friend_ ," she says, making it perfectly clear that she thinks he's anything but, which is hilarious because Grantaire really is just a friend.

"Yes," says Enjolras. "My friend."

They stand there, her just inside the doorway looking as if she's still deciding whether to shut the door on them and pretend they never arrived, and Enjolras on the porch, having a bit of a stare down. Grantaire hovers awkwardly behind Enjolras, probably pretending he's not there.

"Do come in," she says finally, as if Enjolras is a stranger to his own childhood home. 

"Merry Christmas," says Grantaire as they sidle past her and Enjolras almost laughs, because it's so ingrained in her to be socially acceptable that she just smiles back at him and says 'Merry Christmas' back before grimacing in horror.

"You know the way up, dear, you can show your friend the way," says Enjolras's mother, waving them towards the staircase. "We'll be in the drawing room once you're unpacked and settled in. We haven't moved any of your things."

"What about –" starts Enjolras, but she's already wafted off towards the drawing room, as if being actually helpful has taxed her greatly.

That leaves Enjolras alone in the foyer with Grantaire.

"Drawing room." says Grantaire. "You have a drawing room."

"Yep."

"I didn't think those still existed."

Enjolras gives Grantaire a slightly despairing look, and waves around them. The foyer has ceilings twelve feet high, and a chandelier hangs from it, so large it almost brushes the tip of the ornately decorated Christmas tree in the middle of the room. Around the sides, two mahogany staircases curl upwards, meeting in the middle to actually take them upstairs; tasteful silver and blue Christmas ribbons are threaded through them all.

"Point taken," says Grantaire. "When we rolled up, I half expected there to be a valet or a butler or something."

"They get the Christmas holiday off," says Enjolras distractedly, lugging his suitcase up the stairs towards his old room. "We have a skeleton staff that does the Christmas lunch catering, and that's it. Never let it be said that we aren't generous."

Grantaire snorts, tossing his duffel bag over one shoulder and following Enjolras up. "Where am I staying, by the way?"

"My room," says Enjolras with a sigh, turning onto the first floor landing.

Grantaire waves at the two or three doors they've already walked past. "Erm. You realise you live in a small mansion, right? You probably have like ten spare bedrooms."

"Just eight. The only scandal worse than a son who turns up with a boyfriend is a son who turns up with a boyfriend who doesn't even sleep in the same bed as him," says Enjolras, and it's scary because it had taken barely a moment's thought to know exactly how his mother would view it.

Grantaire pauses. Enjolras turns to blink at him, and Grantaire holds up a hand. "Wait. What? _Seriously?_ Firstly, we're not dating –"

"They're not going to believe me if I tell them that."

"– I repeat, we are not dating. But if we were, your parents thoroughly disapprove, and yet would prefer us to sleep together than apart, because that's somehow less scandal?"

"More or less," admits Enjolras apologetically. "I can't really explain it, it's just something I _know_ , from years of brainwashing."

They arrive, finally, at Enjolras's room. Someone, probably Marie, has cleaned it recently and put fresh sheets on the bed, but otherwise everything really is exactly how he left it when he moved out at eighteen and never looked back, as it has been every time Enjolras has visited since. Enjolras grimaces; it feels very much like a shrine to a dead child.

"Oh my god," says Grantaire, dropping his bag just inside the doorway. "This is like a time capsule. A glimpse into the mind of a teenage Enjolras." He points at an enormous poster of Kate Nash, and raises an eyebrow.

"What?" says Enjolras defensively, "She makes very good points in her music." He immediately hates that his hackles are rising, because he shouldn't have to defend the person he was almost _ten years ago_. 

"Eh," says Grantaire. "I guess she does." And what does that even mean?

Enjolras pushes his suitcase into the corner. "I'll sleep on the floor," he says. "You take the bed."

Grantaire sits down on the bed, which is so springy it just bounces him right back up. "Your bed is huge, Enjolras. Huge. It's not even king-sized, it's orgy-sized. I'm reasonably sure we can fit the two of us on it. I warn you though, I cuddle."

Enjolras's mind catches on 'orgy-sized' and 'cuddle' in relationship to Grantaire, and has a little bit of a melt-down.


	3. Chapter 3

The downfall of bringing company to his parents is that they have to all pretend to be sociable. If it had just been Enjolras then he could have got away with hiding out in his room most of the time, coming down for mealtimes and staying just long enough after them to be polite, before escaping them again.

Glasses of red wine are pressed into their hands when they step into the drawing room – and Grantaire had been disbelieving when Enjolras had mentioned having a drawing room, but there is no other word for it, not when they're standing in the walnut-floored room with the ceiling high windows covered with velvet curtains, or walking across thick fur rugs with the head still attached, with shelves of handbound hardbacks lining the walls and an honest-to-God drinks tray next to the cheese board. Grantaire looks somewhat surprised to see Enjolras take a glass of wine, and Enjolras just mutters, “Even I need it to get through this.”

Grantaire stands a little closer to him when the wall of relatives approach – Enjolras's mother, of course, and her sister and her younger brother and their respective husband and wife. Enjolras glances over, but instead of tension, he sees – encouragement? Grantaire isn't standing so close because he's nervous; it's because he thinks Enjolras might be.

Enjolras smiles for the first time since they left his bedroom. “Everyone, I'd like you to meet Grantaire, my friend.” He introduces them each to Grantaire, who shakes their hands firmly.

“Your friend _,_ ” says Aunt Edith, who is far too polite to actually stress the word and yet makes it sound like it ought to be in quotation marks or italics anyway.

“Yes,” says Enjolras, for once being entirely truthful. It's a novel feeling. “We work at the same charitable organisation.”

“How noble,” she says, and somehow makes it sound anything but.

“Well it must be charity,” says Uncle Beau, the uncle who's his mother's brother, not the one married to Aunt Edith.

“What?” asks Grantaire. Evidently the layers upon suffocating layers of snide remarks are hard for anyone not brought up on them to follow.

Beau raises his eyebrows at Grantaire, and Enjolras almost stifles a laugh – it's very similar to the expression Grantaire makes at him on occasion. “To come to our family event with ole kiddo here,” clarifies Beau, in a manner not remotely clarifying at all. “It must be an act of charity. I doubt anyone's that generous.”

“...Thank you,” says Grantaire, somewhat bemused, trying to parse what Beau actually means.

Enjolras can feel the headache growing behind his temples already. “He means he thinks you're an escort,” he says bluntly. “Someone I paid to accompany me here.” He looks down at his glass of red wine, the stem of which he's clutching so tightly he's amazed it hasn't snapped. He drains the whole thing in one.

“ _Dear_ ,” says his mother.

“You're all thinking it,” says Enjolras, because it's probably best to get this out of the way. And it rankles the most because – well, because they're right. Grantaire isn't here because he's dating Enjolras, he's here because... because Enjolras is too much of a coward to face them on his own.

“Oh,” says Grantaire, blinking, probably replaying the conversation over in his head. “Well, still. Thank you. I wouldn't have thought I was nearly good looking enough to be an escort. It's the facial hair, isn't it? It makes me look more rugged.” He strokes his chin, and Enjolras snorts, out loud and ungainly.

A terse silence seeps through the room until a chime of a bell sounds. Enjolras's mother moves immediately. “Shall we take dinner?”

 


	4. Chapter 4

Dinner was bad. Like, so bad that Enjolras doesn't even remember actually eating.

"Wow," says Grantaire. They escaped as early as humanly possible, moving from dining room to drawing room to Enjolras' bedroom, and they're both sort of just keeled over the bed in shock. "I thought I was offensive."

Enjolras snorts, and shuts his eyes. The headache that's been brewing at the base of his skull seems to have plateaued into a mild throb, and the sheets at least are clean and soft and smell comfortingly of fabric softener. "No, you're antagonistic. There's a difference."

"Really, we're arguing about semantics?" mumbles Grantaire into the duvet.

"Being offensive just comes naturally to this lot. I'm about 80% sure they're not even trying to insult you, they just genuinely believe that you're someone I paid to come with me."

The bed shifts under him, which means that Grantaire must have rolled over or something. Enjolras turns his head to peek out, and sees Grantaire sitting up and frowning. "Have you seen yourself lately?"

That seems like a non-sequitur. "What?"

"I don't think you've ever needed to pay anyone to accompany you to anything. Come on, Enjolras, why is it so hard for them to believe you'd genuinely have a date?" Grantaire sounds genuinely serious, which is probably the only reason it doesn't feel like a punch in the gut.

Enjolras groans, and props himself up on his elbows. "I think they think that my personality is enough to off-set that," he says, which is the most diplomatic way he can put it. "Also, it's not like I've ever willing brought anyone to meet them," he adds, trying to steer the conversation into more comfortable waters.

Grantaire takes the hint. "Yeah, I remember you saying. Between the journey and dinner, I am fucking exhausted by the way. I hope you're not expecting me to stay up late and have pillow fights and gossip about our friends."

With a snort, Enjolras points towards the en-suite. "Don't worry about it. Bathroom's through there, use whatever you want."

"Thanks." Grantaire ambles off, grabbing a bag of toiletries on the way and Enjolras supposes that he should consider pyjamas and brushing his teeth and stuff, just so he's prepared if he just zonks out.

He opens out an IM window on his phone with Courfeyrac and Combeferre, just so he can stop the echoes of his relatives running through his head over and over and checks it in between getting changed and turning the lights off, leaving just the bedside lamp on. His best friends know this mood too well, and they distract Enjolras with silly festive thoughts instead, and Enjolras feels his shoulders start to relax, the tension being drawn out of him.

His brain starts unwinding, and that's pretty much his only excuse for stopping dead in his tracks, completely blind-sided when Grantaire walks out in just his underwear, his clothes bundled into a ball. "Nnnnrgh," says Enjolras, which could be interpreted as a distressed moan or also a half decent imitation of an elephant giving birth, he's not really sure.

"Your turn," says Grantaire obliviously (or at least he doesn't comment on it; Enjolras is reasonably sure that Grantaire heard his moment of being slammed in the face with an embarrassing amount of lust), and stretches. Which. Makes his muscles. Do things. Enjolras may have used up his quota of eloquence for the day.

Enjolras flees into the bathroom before he can blurt out anything stupid, like 'can I touch your biceps?', and shudders all over when the door is safely shut. It's not like he hasn't seen Grantaire mostly naked before, because Les Amis have far too many sleepovers and are far too casually close for that to be new, but it's the first time Enjolras hasn't been emotionally prepared for it. He needs advance warning on things like this.

At least, he thinks ruefully as he brushes his teeth, he's been thoroughly distracted from thinking about his awful family. Enjolras pads back out, and is slightly disappointed when Grantaire is tucked up under the covers on the near side of the bed, and his bare biceps are nowhere to be seen.

"Hey," says Grantaire, sleepily. "You don't have to turn the lights off if you don't want to crash out just yet. I can sleep through almost anything."

"If you're sure," says Enjolras, hesitantly sliding in the other side of the bed. There's a good two feet of cool bed space between them, but he's still stiff, worried that any movement will be annoying. He doesn't relax until he realises that the slow, deep breaths beside him mean that Grantaire clearly does not have the same problem and has just dropped effortlessly off to sleep.

Enjolras rolls over so he's facing Grantaire's back. He's too far away to feel the body warmth radiating off him, but Enjolras imagines that he can anyway. He huffs at himself, feeling silly for being so awkward about this. He's slept over with most of Les Amis at some point. He wriggles further down into the bed, and shuts his eyes.

–

Enjolras wakes up with morning wood. It's something that edges into his awareness, first as a mild discomfort, and then just a nagging awareness as he drifts closer to fully awake. What comes a little bit later is the fact that his pillow has this bit that's jutting into his jaw, and also maybe it's kind of moving underneath him. Oh God.

Enjolras goes from half-asleep to completely and fully awake as it becomes painfully obvious that he's rolled himself across the bed sometime in the night, and is cuddled up against Grantaire's side. The thing digging into his cheekbone is Grantaire's shoulder. He nuzzles absently against said shoulder before realising what he's doing, and freezes in horror.

"I guess you're awake," says Grantaire from somewhere above him, voice rumbling comfortably through Enjolras's face where it's still pressed to Grantaire's skin.

"Kill me now," says Enjolras, closing his eyes. Maybe he's still dreaming. "God, I am _so_ sorry." He's now really, really hyper-aware of the fact that his morning wood is kind of lying against Grantaire's hip, and tries to shuffle back when Grantaire makes a weird noise. "What?"

"You're letting the cold in," says Grantaire with a half-laugh, before adding sheepishly, "Also, you're on my arm and it's kind of got pins and needles. It's probably better if you don't move right now."

"Oh," says Enjolras. "Sorry," he says again for good measure. He can feel Grantaire slowly moving his fingers from the minute ways his arm tenses under Enjolras's neck, and wonders how long Grantaire's been awake. And why he didn't just shove Enjolras off.

Grantaire moves minutely, and it's Enjolras's turn to make a noise as his cock slides across Grantaire's hip. "Sorry," he says again. Other words might exist, but Enjolras has blanked on them all in his mortification.

"It's fine," says Grantaire. "If you lift your head straight off, I think I might be able to bend my elbow now."

Enjolras does as he's told and Grantaire drags his arm back into his side with a loud groan. Enjolras shivers as cool air steals between their parted bodies and slivers down inside the covers. "You should have just pushed me off," he says. "God, I'm sorry. I'm just used to sleeping in the middle of this bed, I guess."

Grantaire laughs, and rubs at his arm. "Seriously, I didn't mind. It was pretty nice, you know, apart from the pain. Merry Christmas."

Enjolras should move back, he knows, to the other side of the bed, or possibly to the bathroom until his body's calmed the fuck down, but – he doesn't. There's an air of quiet peace in the bedroom as they lean, sleep-rumpled and languid, the bare inches between them slowly warming back up again from their combined body heat. He smiles. "Merry Christmas."


	5. Chapter 5

They manage to steal a couple of hours to themselves, opening just their presents from their group of friends. "Here, open this." Grantaire tosses a present at him, wrapped in plain brown paper.

It's lumpy and soft, and Enjolras opens it to find the most horrendous Christmas jumper he has seen in his life. It's bobbly wool and there's a reindeer knitted onto it, with googly eyes that shake and settle on cross-eyed, and a red pom-pom for a nose in the middle of his chest.

"I thought you could wear it for Christmas dinner," says Grantaire, and Enjolras gapes at him for a moment before just imagining the reactions. The double-takes, the barely concealed horror, the thinly veiled compliments, the dirty glances straight through the meal. He clutches at the jumper, and bursts into laughter.

Grantaire looks at him in surprise.

"What?" asks Enjolras, grinning too hard and really not caring. He pulls it on over his pyjamas, even though they have to get properly dressed and go downstairs in a bit. He doesn't care, this is the best stress relief for the day.

"Huh," says Grantaire. "I just don't see you laughing like that often."

Enjolras thinks about it for a bit. That's not entirely true – well, a bit true, he supposes. When there's the three of them, himself and Combeferre and Courfeyrac, they tend to slip into their roles a little bit. "I'm always laughing on the inside," he tells Grantaire, deadpan, and flicks the pompom nose with a finger; Grantaire snorts.

When it's about time for them to make an appearance, Enjolras tries to cling to the feeling on the morning as he gets dressed, pulling the horrific jumper on and huddling inside it as if it might protect him from his family. Grantaire's pulled on a hoodie and a pair of jeans, and Enjolras hovers for a moment.

"What?" asks Grantaire, because apparently he's magical, and can tell when Enjolras wants to say something but hasn't quite worked out how to say it yet.

"Christmas – is a formal event with my family," he says apologetically. Grantaire just blinks at him for a moment, and Enjolras waves a hand at his clothes. "Everyone else is probably going to be in a suit."

Grantaire raises one eyebrow. " _Seriously_?" He looks down at himself. "I didn't bring anything formal. Who the fuck has formal Christmas dinners?"

"Sorry," says Enjolras again. "But – that's why your present is so great?" He points down at himself, and tries to shimmy his chest, and the googly eyes rattle and Grantaire splutters in helpless laughter.

"If I'd known it was like that, I'd have bought the matching penguin one for myself and worn that instead." Grantaire plucks at his frayed cuffs. "Do you – mind?"

"God, no," says Enjolras emphatically. "If you don't mind?"

Grantaire shrugs. "Not my family," he says. "Let's go be really offensively casual." He holds out his arm and Enjolras stares at it for a moment. The silence stretches for a tad long and Grantaire looks like he's regretting doing it, but Enjolras slides up to his side and tucks his arm through, surreptitiously laying his other hand across Grantaire's bicep, and grins.

Their way downstairs is intercepted with the last family members Grantaire hasn't met yet, namely his mother's other brother. "I hear you've usurped my place as family black sheep!" booms a voice from the landing, and Enjolras winces when a heavy hand claps him on the shoulder several times.

"Grantaire," says Enjolras without letting go of Grantaire's arm, "this is my uncle Lionel. And his, er –" He falters – his uncle previously held the unofficial title of family black sheep because of his dalliances with women significantly younger than him, and this year appears to be no different. Enjolras also doesn't recognise her, so she must be new.

"Girlfriend," says his uncle dismissively, not even bothering to introduce her by name. "And _you_ must be the boy toy the family's up in arms about."

Grantaire' eyes widen in alarm as Lionel chuckles, and adds, "Or perhaps it's the other way around. You've got the better looks for a boy toy, eh, kiddo?" He smacks Enjolras in the middle of the back, and he and his new girlfriend troop on down to the drawing room ahead of them, leaving both of them with cheeks stained with pink.

"I dislike him the least," says Enjolras dryly, and Grantaire huffs.

"If I hadn't met the rest of them, I'd have said that was impossible to be more obnoxious than that. Wow."

It's like they've got some sort of inside joke flowing between them, which means that when they step through to the drawing room and his mother's nostril's flare in distress (and it's a little disturbing that he can tell what that means at this distance, really), Enjolras just smiles serenely. "Merry Christmas, everyone," he says.

"Merry Christmas," she says automatically, and then – "Whatever are you wearing, dear?"

"Oh, this?" asks Enjolras, plucking at the jumper as if he's only just noticed it, and making the googly eyes shake again. "Grantaire got it for me for Christmas. Isn't it wonderful?"

"Ah," she says, her smile strained. "Isn't it just?"

Their family doesn't sit around and open Christmas presents together, because that would involve actual feelings and sentimentality, and they lost all semblance of that when Enjolras was about ten. Instead, it's almost a dinner party – the women are wearing cocktail dresses and the men are indeed all wearing suits, minus the jackets – and it does feel terribly, terrible pretentious. They make small talk, which means Enjolras mostly stays silent and Grantaire lets him hide his clenched fists in the crook of his arm.

Lionel, having not been here the night before, at least doesn't seem to believe Grantaire's been hired for the occasion, and this might actually be worse because it means that the small talk involves all the nosy questions everyone really wants to ask them but can't.

Grantaire, for his part, takes up the gauntlet. He's telling everyone how they met, at Fresher's Fayre. Enjolras doesn't remember it, but a memory stirs when Grantaire mentions the part with the loudspeaker and the drunken love confession, but he certainly hadn't put together before now that it had been _Grantaire_. And then Grantaire is moving on to their dates – their _non existent_ dates, because they're not dating after all – but they are actually all things they've done together.

They weren't date dates, they were friend dates, and some of them involved other Les Amis members. Enjolras isn't sure whether he's glad or dismayed Grantaire seems to be able to put a romantic spin on them so easily. On the other hand, his family look increasingly distressed that anyone thought of engaging in small talk, because now he's got the reigns, Grantaire's not giving them up, and the stream of stories just continues.

For the first time in years, Enjolras sits back, and actually enjoys the food.


	6. Chapter 6

"It's over," says Enjolras with a sigh. "Thank you."

"No problem," says Grantaire, bouncing down on the bed at the same time as Enjolras. He leans over to flick the pom-pom on Enjolras' chest, because it really hasn't lost its novelty yet.

Enjolras frowns, and turns to face Grantaire. "I mean it, seriously. Thank you. You bore the brunt of all my ghastly relatives, you really didn't have to." They're closer than Enjolras had expected, and Enjolras blinks as Grantaire rolls to face him and there's suddenly a whole lot more eye contact than he was expecting.

"Like I said. No problem." He makes it sound so easy.

Enjolras opens his mouth – there's got to be some way to convince Grantaire that Enjolras isn't taking him lightly – but then there's a loud moan from next door.

And then the thumping starts on the wall.

Grantaire's eyes are wide. "Is that your –"

"I forgot they put him in that spare room. The bed backs onto the shared wall. I must have blanked this out of my mind, but it happens every single year. All night. Different girlfriend each time too." The wall visibly shakes with every thud. (The thuds start getting accompanying moans.) He closes his eyes and sighs.

"Wow." Grantaire is watching the smaller items on Enjolras's bedside table jitter slowly across the surface.

"There are spare pillows if you want one to press over your head," Enjolras says dully.

Grantaire props himself up on one elbow, and his face is scrunched up – their other friends would know what it means, but Enjolras can't quite interpret it. "Do you mind if I interrupt them?"

Enjolras frowns. "Go ahead."

He's not sure what he expected – perhaps Grantaire banging on the wall in return or something – but whatever it was, it definitely was not Grantaire throwing his head back and letting out the loudest, most obscene moan he's ever heard. It rumbles through his chest and sends a frisson straight down to his – " _Nnnrgh_ ," says Enjolras, his face probably entirely red as he comes up with the most ineloquent response _ever_. Grantaire just looks at him and his grin is positively wicked.

He does it again.

Enjolras is going to fucking explode, and it'll forever be a mystery as to whether it'll be from arousal or embarrassment. He stares at Grantaire for a long moment, Grantaire who is still bloody smirking at him, and pulls himself together. Two can play at this game. Enjolras heaves in a deep breath, and it comes out as a long, drawn out, "Gran _taaaaaire_."

The grin drops off of Grantaire's face and Enjolras thinks for one horrifying moment that he's gone too far, taken the joke out of the realm of funny and into personal but then Grantaire throws a pillow at him, and mouths, "Oh, you are _on_."

He licks his lips, and that's all the notice Enjolras gets before Grantaire moans, low and obscene. "Oh my _Go_ _oooooo_ _d_ , Enjolras!" His voice tips into a scream at the end and Enjolras is caught between laughing and telling Grantaire to do that again, say his name like that again. There's something swirling viciously in his stomach and it feels distressingly like nausea but he doesn't want it to stop.

So Enjolras does what he always does when there are feelings he doesn't quite know what to do with, and fucking embarrasses himself. He opens his mouth, and starts panting as loudly as he can, letting out wet, raw moans with each pant and watches Grantaire go red as a beet with a sort of smugness when he realises what Enjolras is doing.

"You're going to kill me," whispers Grantaire, and gets onto his feet. Enjolras frowns up at him – a difficult feat when he's trying to sound like he's being fucked within an inch of his life – and then yelps when Grantaire experimentally jumps on his bed; he bounces.

Grantaire grins, and holds out a hand, and Enjolras scrambles up next to him; suddenly they're jumping on the bed like children, the bedsprings creaking alarmingly, and Enjolras notices breathlessly that Grantaire never let go of his hand.

"Oh my _God_ ," Grantaire screeches when Enjolras accidentally lands on his foot, and Enjolras sends himself thumping against the wall with laughter trying to avoid him on the next jump, and manages to turn it into a convincingly breathless moan at the end. The mattress dips them together, making hips and knees bump, until Grantaire crowds Enjolras a little too close and Enjolras' thigh drags along Grantaire's crotch and it's painfully, painfully obvious that he's hard in his jeans.

Enjolras stumbles, wide-eyed, and Grantaire just brushes it off with a shrug. "Just ignore me," he says, too flippantly, "I'll get over it."

Enjolras is so blindsided by the sudden rush of arousal that hits him like a wall that he just. Stops.

"Enjolras?" Grantaire stops jumping. "I – sorry?"

"No," says Enjolras breathlessly, and not just from the physical exertion. "No, no, wait." He steps towards Grantaire, and Grantaire steps back so Enjolras tumbles across the bed, his feet getting tangled in the covers until he half-lands on Grantaire, clutching at his t-shirt. "What if I don't want you to get over it?"

Grantaire's hands settle on his hips to help brace him automatically. "What do you mean?"

Enjolras presses himself against Grantaire, suddenly aware how much heat his own body is radiating – he must be red as a tomato – and exhales with a shudder before pushing his hips forward so Grantaire can feel his own arousal, the one he's been ignoring for – a while.

"Oh," says Grantaire.

Enjolras's heart is thumping painfully against the front of his rib cage, each beat echoing in his ears, and he swallows. "They've stopped. The – the other room."

"Really not capable of thinking about other people right now," says Grantaire, with fake levity, but his thumbs are rubbing small, tentative circles on Enjolras's hip and his own heart is pounding the same beat back at Enjolras, so Enjolras takes that as a sign. He leans forward, and presses a kiss against Grantaire's lips.

"I want to hear you when you're not faking it," he says, and has the pleasure of seeing Grantaire's eyes flutter shut, right before blunt fingertips dig into his side, and Grantaire kisses him back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took forever, I AM SO SORRY DDDDDD:

**Author's Note:**

> Dear howlingcat,
> 
> I hope you had/are having a good holiday season! I'm really sorry this is a) late and b) in parts. I promise it will be complete soon!


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